


The Bewitching Witcher

by lamujerarana



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: First Kiss, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:35:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23361046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamujerarana/pseuds/lamujerarana
Summary: Geralt is acting downright strangely, and Jaskier doesn’t know why.It might, of course, have something to do with the events of the night before, although Jaskier can’t remember any of it.And when he does figure out what he did, he wishes he hadn’t.***“Why are you being like this? What did I do to piss you off?”Geralt silently contemplated the sky for a few moments. “You don’t remember last night, do you?” he said at last.Jaskier was left rather speechless, but eventually, he managed to say, “I remember parts of it.” Geralt gave him a skeptical look. “Very early parts of it.”“Hmm. Well, if you don’t know, you can find out from someone else. I’ll not tell you.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 25
Kudos: 450





	The Bewitching Witcher

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I changed the title--"The Bewitching Witcher" is just too funny to pass up.

Geralt was behaving very strangely.

He was speaking, somehow, less than usual—which Jaskier truly hadn’t thought possible—and he was… _skittish_.

Yes. That was the word.

Geralt had, admittedly, spoken quite a lot this morning when they set off to investigate the rash of missing children in the area. It had mostly consisted of profuse swearing, filled with some words even Jaskier, surprisingly, hadn’t heard before, although he could gather the general gist of it, which was that Geralt did not want Jaskier to accompany him on this mission.

Geralt had been known to complain endlessly about being accompanied by Jaskier on dangerous missions in the past, but Jaskier had always been sure that it was mostly for show and that Geralt was secretly pleased to have company during his lonely travels.

This morning, however, he’d felt for the first time since their initial meeting that Geralt genuinely did not want Jaskier to go with him.

Jaskier was hurt. Hurt and offended.

Especially since Geralt had seemed in fine spirits the day before—he’d even asked Jaskier if he wanted to go drinking at the pub with him, which was a first. Normally, Jaskier had to badger Geralt into doing anything that even vaguely resembled the average person’s idea of what constituted fun and entertainment and didn’t involve beating monsters to a bloody pulp for money.

But then, this morning Geralt was fidgety, couldn’t meet Jaskier’s eyes, and seemed generally uncomfortable in Jaskier’s presence.

The only logical assumption Jaskier could make was that something had happened between them last night.

Unfortunately, Jaskier also remembered nothing about last night after, oh, about drink number three.

He’d woken up alone in his bedroom, stumbled downstairs, caught Geralt trying to sneak off without him, and insisted on going with him.

They’d argued, but it had ended with Jaskier declaring, in no uncertain terms, “If you don’t want me to go with you, Witcher, you’ll just have to—tie me up or something.”

He hadn’t stomped his foot, but he’d felt like it. He did so enjoy high emotion and melodrama, although generally not before he’d guzzled down whatever breakfast he could afford.

Geralt had—it seemed so unbelievable now—lowered his eyes, grunted once, and then, bizarrely, _fled_ from the pub.

There wasn’t really any other way to describe it—of that Jaskier was certain.

Jaskier fixed a puzzled frown on Geralt’s broad shoulders as they rode through the countryside toward the site of the most recent abduction and tried to make sense of it all.

The Butcher of Blaviken, the White Wolf of Rivia, a daring, strong, fearless Witcher who struck fear into the hearts of all who laid eyes upon him, who had slain monsters capable of making lesser men piss themselves in terror, had _fled_ from a beautiful, soft-spoken, gentle, stylishly-dressed bard.

Jaskier simply did not understand why. Geralt had never been frightened of him before. Certainly Jaskier’s mien was anything but menacing.

Jaskier decided to confront Geralt about his suspicions directly. He could not depend on Geralt to do anything other than avoid the issue to an irrational degree.

Words were the medium in which Jaskier excelled, in which he chose to create his transcendent works of art; Geralt’s chosen medium was violence. And brooding. And this was not the sort of issue that could be settled through violence _or_ brooding.

So that meant that this was up to Jaskier to set right.

What could he have done? Stolen Geralt’s purse from him? Spent what little he had on food, women, and wine? Geralt should thank him for that, if that’s what he’d done.

Perhaps he’d said something tactless about Yennefer, the enchantress with whom Geralt had been tortuously in love for years, but of whom Jaskier disapproved intensely—he did not think that her decision to cheat on Geralt with her ex or leave Geralt so abruptly said much about her general character.

If Jaskier had ever been so lucky as to be able to call the Witcher’s bruised heart his own, he certainly wouldn’t have squandered it as carelessly as Jennifer had. He would have cherished it and treated it with the care and love it so richly deserved, and he would have given Geralt every ounce of love and adoration he bore in his own soul.

They could have had one of those epic, soaring romances that lived forever in the hearts and minds of the people: the White Wolf of Rivia and his own true love, Jaskier the Bard. Geralt would perform various acts of astonishing bravery, skill, and nobility, and Jaskier would dutifully chronicle them for posterity through various songs and poems. Working together, they would ensure that no one would ever forget either of them, bard or Witcher. A perfect pair.

Of course, there would also be a number of deliriously happy love ballads that would be equally popular.

But, alas, while Jaskier was all too willing to fall in love with Geralt, the Witcher had never betrayed the slightest hint of interest. And he had known Jaskier for _years_ now.

It had been difficult, but Jaskier had eventually, as the years passed, accepted that their epic romance was simply not to be—except in those adoring, wistful love ballads that he had written in secret and never played to anyone, ever, out of fear that they would somehow find their way back to Geralt and Jaskier would end up losing some treasured parts of his anatomy.

It was a shame, really, since they were some of his best work. Perhaps he’d publish them someday, when he was very old and Geralt was much less likely to track Jaskier down and commit various acts of violence upon his person.

Today, however, he was more interested in ensuring that he could retain Geralt’s general goodwill and friendship.

Jaskier squared his jaw determinedly and urged his horse forward until he was riding side by side with Geralt and Roach.

“Geralt,” Jaskier said firmly, “we need to talk about why you’re acting like this.”

“Like what?” Geralt replied gruffly. He still wasn’t looking at Jaskier, and Jaskier found that he hated it. “I always act like this.”

Jaskier shook his head vehemently. “No, no, no, you don’t. I’ve known you for a long time, Witcher, and I know all of your moods, and this is a new one.”

“No, it’s not. I’ve been in this mood many times throughout my life.”

“No, you haven’t.”

“You don’t know everything about me, _bard_.”

“You know, someday I am going to get very offended at the way you spit out the word ‘bard’ as though it were an insult.”

“That’s because I _am_ insulting you,” Geralt growled, teeth bared like the white wolves after which he was named.

Jaskier wanted to tell Geralt to go perform several unseemly acts, but he decided against it. He hadn’t started this conversation in order to get more furious at Geralt. “Well, this is just getting us _nowhere_! Why don’t we try—”

“I agree. Talking with you is always pointless.”

“It is _not_! You know, there are people out there who admire me and are actually interested in what I have to say and—” Jaskier caught himself, sagged in his saddle, put a hand over his face, and took several deep, calming breaths. Geralt could be so _unbelievably_ taxing sometimes. “Geralt, I just want to know what’s bothering you and how to fix it. You don’t need to snap my head off. Or make insulting and very hurtful remarks.”

“Insulting and very _true_ , you mean.”

Jaskier was tempted to ride off in a huff, but he knew that would just be giving Geralt exactly what he wanted, so of course, it was the last thing Jaskier was going to do.

“Why are you being like this? What did I _do_ to piss you off?”

Geralt silently contemplated the sky for a few moments. “You don’t remember last night, do you?” he said at last.

Jaskier was left rather speechless, but eventually, he managed to say, “I remember parts of it.” Geralt gave him a skeptical look. “Very _early_ parts of it.”

“Hmm. Well, if you don’t know, you can find out from someone else. I’ll not tell you.”

And with that, Geralt gave a particularly vehement twitch of his reins and he and Roach rode off well ahead of Jaskier and his poor, thin horse.

Jaskier was left staring after him, more lost now than he had been when the conversation began.

What the devil had he _done_?

Jaskier was soon distracted from his troubles by the arrival of a bizarrely clad, monstrous Pied Piper, who, it seemed, lured little children away from their homes with lovely, hypnotic music, imprisoned them, and, eventually, had them for supper.

Jaskier was particularly offended at the idea that the Piper had used the venerable art of music for such ignoble ends. How dare he? Didn’t he know that music was sacred and beautiful and…

Suffice it to say, he ranted the entire way back to the pub and inn at which he and Geralt were staying.

The moment they arrived, Geralt fled ( _again_ ) upstairs to his room, leaving Jaskier to entertain himself for the rest of the day.

Jaskier spotted the burly old innkeeper sweeping up the mostly empty pub (it was still much too early for drinking).

The innkeeper had been here last night, he remembered. Perhaps _he_ had witnessed whatever sin Jaskier had committed.

Jaskier headed directly toward him. “Good afternoon, my good sir!” he said cheerily. “I was wondering if I might, perhaps, have a word with you?”

The innkeeper, who was rotund, balding, and had a horrible mustache that resembled the pelt of a dead rodent more than anything else, straightened up, looked Jaskier over disapprovingly, and said, “If it’s about your bill, young sir, I expect you to pay in full or you’ll ‘ave nowt but trouble followin’ you.”

Jaskier waved that notion away. “No, no. Nothing like that.”

The innkeeper’s displeasure morphed into confusion. “Well, what, then?”

Jaskier mustered up all of the dignity he could, rose to his full height, and declared, “I would like to know what I did last night.”

There was a glint of mirth in the innkeeper’s eye of which Jaskier did not approve. “Don’t _you_ know, sir?”

Jaskier cleared his throat. “As it happens, no, I do not.”

The innkeeper, damn him, had the colossal gall to smirk.

Jaskier scowled. “I imbibed rather too much of your ale, and my memory of last night is…poor. So I would like to know if I did anything untoward. Or, perhaps, embarrassing.”

“Oh, aye, that you did.”

Jaskier almost didn’t want to know at this point, but it did seem that his friendship with Geralt was perhaps at stake, so he had no choice but to ask, “Specifically?”

“Well, now,” the innkeeper said amiably, scratching his nose, “where to begin?”

“With anything concerning my friend, the Witcher. Was there any…” He waved a hand around as he searched for the right word. “… _embarrassment_ related to him?”

“Hmm.” The innkeeper frowned. “You mean apart from the two hours you spent serenading him?”

Jaskier’s stomach dropped. “Serenading? What…what did I sing? Nothing too embarrassing, I hope?”

“No, no, the songs were very good. Had me poor wife bawling, they did, and all of my serving girls. All about how much you love that lad an’ how bewitchin’ he is, an’ ‘how sad you were that he din’t love you back.” His eyes twinkled. “The Bewitchin’ Witcher. That’s what you called ‘im.”

No. Oh, no. It wasn’t possible. Those were the secret songs Jaskier had been writing for Geralt these many long years. He couldn’t speak of his love to Geralt—or anyone else, for that matter—and ultimately he had poured all of the feelings that were roiling about inside of him out into these songs, but he certainly had never intended to _sing them to Geralt._ While Jaskier was present and in mortal danger.

Jaskier fought to keep his expression calm. “And…how did Geralt take this?”

“Thought it was funny, at first, then ‘is face got darker as the singin’ went on, and he was very put out, I must say, when you threw up all over ‘is clothes and passed out on ‘is lap. All covered in your own sick, you were. You _both_ were. He carried you upstairs, cursin’ all the while, and that’s the last I saw of you.”

Jaskier had awoken alone in his bed and mostly clothed, so he assumed Geralt had simply deposited him on his bed and left.

He _hoped_ that was all that had happened. That he hadn’t woken up and made an awkward situation even more so.

“Ah,” Jaskier said awkwardly. “Well. Thank you. I believe that’s all I needed to know.”

Jaskier turned to make his escape, but was brought to a halt when he heard the innkeeper say, “Oh, and you did kiss ‘im, you know.”

“On the mouth?” Jaskier asked without turning around.

“Aye. And for a long while at that. That’s right before you emptied your stomach all over the Witcher’s clothes, now that I think on it.”

Jaskier shut his eyes. Of course it had been. Of course.

Then it was Jaskier’s turn to flee up the stairs, his heart pounding loudly in his chest all the while.

_He had told Geralt the truth of how he felt about him._

How could he have been so—so _stupid_ , and careless, and—a _dunce_ , that’s what he was, a dunce.

He swore to himself that he would never drink another drop of alcohol, ever again, and promptly realized that he craved a drink more than anything in the world.

Curse his luck.

He didn’t think he would ever be able to look Geralt in the eye again ever. This was the rather ignominious end of a friendship that had endured through so many long years that it grieved Jaskier to think of them.

A drunken serenade and an embarrassing kiss, that was all it took to unravel a friendship it had taken them years to build.

Jaskier paced back and forth in his room for hours, agonizing over what he should do, how he could fix this.

He supposed he could go to Geralt, apologize, and do his best to downplay the feelings to which he had so stupidly confessed.

Or he could pack his bags and run away and hope that time would lead Geralt to forgive and forget, so that the next time they ran into each other, things would be less awkward.

 _Significantly_ less awkward, he hoped.

Jaskier was conflicted about which course of action to take until he recalled how sharp and pointy Geralt’s sword was and how easily he had beheaded that impudent Pied Piper.

Jaskier’s hand went to his own throat. He rather enjoyed having his head attached to his body and wasn’t eager to risk the loss of either.

Well. That settled that. Jaskier would pack up and be on his way tonight.

He’d find some obscure town to hide in—no, wait, Geralt tended to favor those. A royal court! Now _those_ Geralt loathed and rarely frequented.

Yes, a lavish royal court sounded ideal. Somewhere peaceful, where there were few monsters who would require the arrival of a Witcher.

Jaskier knew just the place and set about preparing to leave immediately.

Given that he had such few possessions, it didn’t take him long at all to set off down the stairs, lute slung across his back.

The inn was far busier now than it had been earlier that afternoon, but still Jaskier had little difficulty picking out the portly form of the innkeeper.

He made his way through the crowd, attracted the innkeeper’s attention, and asked him very politely to tell Geralt that he had been called away unexpectedly and would be gone for a long time.

Possibly a _very_ long time.

The innkeeper nodded his head. “You and your lad had a fight, then?”

“Not at all. I was called away. Urgent business,” Jaskier sniffed. Who did this innkeeper think he was to be prying into Jaskier’s private affairs—or, more accurately, the lack of them?

“Odd that I din’t see no messenger headin’ up to your room.”

“I suspect, my good man, you must have been busy and missed his arrival.”

“Oh, aye, I suppose that must be it.”

The manner in which the innkeeper was looking at Jaskier was entirely too knowing and downright disrespectful.

“Well,” Jaskier said with a curt nod. He placed a few coins in the innkeeper’s hand. “For your troubles. Do see to it that Geralt gets my message.”

The innkeeper nodded.

Jaskier all but bolted for the door, headed for the stables.

The stables were curiously empty, given the number of customers in the pub. Jaskier supposed that few of them were planning to stay the night, or they mostly lived near enough to walk home. Or stumble, as the case may be.

Jaskier strode directly toward the stall that held his own little mare and was busy strapping on her saddle and his luggage when he heard Geralt’s unmistakable growl say, “Going somewhere?”

Jaskier cursed softly under his breath, gathered himself together, and then rounded on Geralt. “I thought you weren’t talking to me,” he said shortly.

Geralt was leaning in the doorway of stable in a simple shirt and trousers. His long white hair was distractingly loose and lovely as it ringed his dimly-lit face, and his perfect, muscled arms were crossed casually across that wonderfully broad chest of his.

“Perhaps I changed my mind,” Geralt replied, oblivious to his own loveliness.

“Oh, so you’re not angry at me now?”

Geralt took a step toward Jaskier, who couldn’t help but think that this was some kind of trap that was going to end with him thrown into a pile of manure. “I take it you know what happened last night?”

Jaskier saw no point in denying it. “The innkeeper told me.”

Geralt raised his eyebrows expectantly. “And?” he prompted.

Jaskier wasn’t sure what Geralt was expecting him to say. “And…I’m sorry I ruined your clothes?”

That seemed to amuse Geralt for reasons Jaskier could not fathom. “And?”

Jaskier rolled his eyes and sighed wearily. “And…I suppose I am sorry if I embarrassed you in any way.”

“Worse has been done to me.” Geralt took another step toward Jaskier. “Those songs…what were those songs?”

“Oh,” Jaskier said as casually as he could, “they were…nothing. Just. Some new songs I’ve been toying with, but nothing, really.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s a pity.”

Jaskier was speechless for a beat, but gathered himself together quickly enough to say, “What is _that_ supposed to mean?”

“It means that I was angry about the very public serenade, I did not enjoy being vomited all over—some of it fell in my _mouth_ , Jaskier, and in my hair. I had difficulty getting the taste of it out of my mouth, and it was _foul_.“

Jaskier winced. Oh, god. He had thought this couldn’t get any worse, but apparently he was being optimistic. “Yes, um, sorry about that. If it helps, I have sworn off liquor forever. Permanently. It’ll never happen again.”

Geralt shook his head and smiled fondly. “You, give up the bottle? I find that difficult to believe.”

“I have!” Jaskier placed a hand over his heart and held up a hand. “I swear it.”

“We’ll see,” Geralt replied, with far more skepticism than Jaskier felt was entirely necessary.

Jaskier belatedly realized that Geralt was standing very close to him now.

Jaskier braced himself internally. This was when he was going to get thrown into the filthy manure, he just _knew_ it.

Geralt took a deep breath, almost as though he were steeling himself, and said, “I objected to all of that, bard, but…after thinking on it all last night and most of today, I have found, much to my surprise, that I do not object to the sentiment behind the songs. Or the kissing. Or any of the filthy things you whispered you wanted to do to me, right before the vomiting began.”

Jaskier was a master of words, but his facility with language seemed to have departed entirely, precisely at the moment when he needed it most. “So. You’re saying…what?”

“Many things.”

“ _Geralt_.”

Geralt’s hands were…they were on Jaskier’s hips and…his face—no, his _lips_ were drawing closer to Jaskier’s own and…then Geralt kissed Jaskier with more gentleness than Jaskier had thought him capable of.

When Geralt drew back, Jaskier’s mouth was hanging embarrassingly wide open, and his brain couldn’t seem to string together a coherent thought.

“Ah,” Geralt teased. “So that’s what it takes to get you to stop talking. If you’d told me that earlier, we could have saved a lot of time.”

Jaskier’s jaw snapped shut as he scowled. “You like it when I talk.”

Geralt smiled that overly fond, sweet smile again, and Jaskier’s heart convulsed.

Geralt lowered his lips to Jaskier’s once more, and this time, he lingered. This time, the kiss was passionate and eager.

Jaskier was breathless, his face flushed pink, by the time Geralt was done.

“Maybe,” Geralt allowed. “But I like kissing you more.”

“You do?”

Geralt nodded.

Jaskier still couldn’t believe any of this was happening. Perhaps he had hit his head somehow and this was all a dream. A wonderful, wonderful dream that he hoped would never end.

“Our romance,” he announced, “must be truly epic, so that bards will sing of us for centuries. I’ll write the songs myself, of course.”

“Yes, I heard last night that you’d already gotten a head start on that.”

“Yes, those songs were very good, weren’t they?”

Geralt drew closer to Jaskier, and for a moment Jaskier was convinced that Geralt was going to kiss him again. His eyes were closed and he waited breathlessly to be kissed once more…and then he felt Geralt’s breath brush against his ear.

“If you ever call me the Bewitching Witcher again, Jaskier, you will regret it.”

Jaskier pulled back far enough for Geralt to see his smile. “But you _are_ bewitching, Geralt.”

Geralt scowled in a manner that surely would have stricken terror into the heart of anyone he had not kissed breathless a minute or so ago.

“Jaskier,” he growled.

Jaskier plucked his lute and his small bag of clothing and assorted poetry books from his mare’s saddle.

He strode out of the stable, strumming his lute and cheerfully singing “The Bewitching Witcher.”

“Jaskier. I will break your lute if you don’t stop this.”

Jaskier grinned cheekily at Geralt over his shoulder and said, “Make me.”

Geralt did—although he did so pleasantly, with his mouth and his hands.

Hmm. Perhaps Jaskier had been wrong. Perhaps violence wasn’t the art in which Geralt excelled. Perhaps it was love, and sex, and kissing.

 _Yes_ , Jaskier mused as he sighed, entirely content, into Geralt’s passionate kiss. _Perhaps it_ was _kissing._

He would have many long years to find out.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on [ tumblr](http://lamujerarana.tumblr.com/)!


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